


Drawing

by Sabishiioni



Category: The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blood, Gen, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabishiioni/pseuds/Sabishiioni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Aramirandme81's One Word at a Time fic.</p><p>Drawing: He hasn’t spoken since it happened. But he draws. He draws with a talent no one knew he possessed, with a passion that’s fierce and awe-inspiring to behold, he draws such beautiful terrible images that he doesn’t need to speak. After all a picture is worth a thousand words…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aramirandme81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramirandme81/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own The Almighty Johnsons  
> Warnings: Blood, torture, violence  
> Follow Me:[Tumblr](http://sabishiioni.tumblr.com/)  
> Mindless Babble: Surprise! I lied. How could I not be inspired by this fic?  
> Fun fact: The story itself is exactly 1,000 words long.

Mike watched his brother with worried eyes. The blond head had yet to lift from the sketch pad that Anders had been studiously scratching a stick of charcoal across for the last hour. It had been a week since Ty had noticed the dead fish in Ander’s aquarium when he stopped by on Dawn’s request. Mike had actually invoked Ullr to find him, knowing how much those fish really meant to his younger sibling.

What he and his brothers had found had scarred them for life. However it was nothing compared to their fair-haired sibling. Lacking any scrap of clothing and huddled in the corner of a crypt, Anders had been covered in blood and gore. Only a small amount had not belonged to him. Pale blue orbs that once shone with mischievous mirth, glistened with unshed tears. Mike was sure he had seen dead with more life in their eyes than he saw in his brother’s.

Yet, the worse had been the silence. When Mike approached the shivering body, pale lips had parted but no scream issued forth as Anders attempted to scramble behind a dusty casket. His skeletal frame failed him and he collapsed, silent sobs wracking the abused form. 

It was Axl, slipping his windbreaker from his shoulders, who made it to his second eldest brother’s side. The youngest draped the brightly colored fabric across the trembling back before gently gathering the smaller brother into his arms. With care and a gentleness that was at odds with his violent god spirit, Axl carried his brother out of the tomb and to the waiting truck. He didn’t let go of the trembling man until they reached the hospital.

Once there, the doctors had been horrified by the brutality inflicted on his brother. Even the one who had served in Afghanistan had to look away for a moment to collect his strength before returning to the bloodstained bed. It was this man, Dr. Tennet, who would become the sole medic to treat Anders.

The three brothers and one young looking grandfather had been sentenced to the long wait in a room of white with pastel paintings of flowers and sunsets. Dr. Tennet finally entered the waiting room, several shades paler. Pain for his patient's misery laced his deep voice as he spoke of the injuries that had been mercilessly inflicted on the man. 

Ten brands burned into his arms and chest.

Fifty-six lashes across his backside and legs.

Eight fingernails torn from their beds.

Too many bruises, cuts and cigarette and acid burns etched on paper thin skin to count.

And then there were the internal injuries.

Fifteen broken or cracked bones. 

Two punctured lungs.

Bruised kidneys, liver and spleen.

A heart made weak from shock, starvation and dehydration.

Yet, all those injuries were nothing compared to the one Mike was witnessing as his brother drew. Anders, the living incarnation of Bragi, god of poetry, had yet to make a sound. Dr. Tennet had checked but surprisingly there had been no damage done to the man’s vocal cords. The doctor’s theory still chilled Mike to the bone.

Anders' tormentor had wanted to hear him scream.

Mike tore his worried gaze from the sight of his huddled brother to stare at the hospital wall. It was now covered with drawings. Each piece of paper held an image of horrifying beauty; imprinted with such minute detail it was hard to believe they were not black and white photographs. They lined the wall- a terrifying mural of brutality, pain and suffering for each piece was not just an illustration but a memory.

It was Dawn who figured out the pattern. She came to visit the day Anders was released from the I.C.U. Her former boss wouldn't even look up from his latest drawing-a fearful creature with a long, slender appendage dripping with blood. Mike regretted getting the pastels and apologized to the young woman. Dawn had shaken her head and smiled sadly. She picked up the stack of other papers and looked through them. Asking for some tape, she began to put them on the wall. Taking down the painting of a lighthouse, she continued her progress until all of them found their place. Stepping back to look at her handiwork, tears sprang to her eyes. 

Anders had found a new way to speak.

No, that wasn’t true. From the skill displayed, Mike knew his younger sibling spoke this language as fluently as English. Perhaps even better than his native tongue, as Mike was positive there were no words in any language to explain the pain and suffering portrayed in charcoal and pastels. 

Dawn had softly wept while he held her flush to his chest, staring at the wall. Though there were some gaps, a story progressed line by line, image by image. It started with how Anders had been ambushed and brought to the crypt. Then the monsters appeared. All were faceless, smoothness where there should have been facial features. Each one embodied the torture inflicted on the artist. Razor sharp claws slicing open bleeding skin. Barbed, whip like limbs snapping across pale and marked flesh. Fingers of flame reaching towards a small ball of terrified human. Huge fists of stone coming down on the unresisting form. 

Sighing, Mike turned away from the wall of horror. He stood and stepped over to the bed to see what new nightmare would wake him in the middle of the night, covered in sweat with tears in his eyes. The thought of asking a doctor for something to help him sleep never crossed his mind. If his brother was suffering, he would not do so alone.

His eyes widened some as he took in the picture that Anders had just finished. This was not one of fear or suffering. He blinked as he and his two youngest brothers stared back from the paper. Anders had drawn the end of his story.

Mike smiled as he kissed the top of his brother’s blond head.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that was a shameless Doctor Who reference.


End file.
